


Deep Water

by Atlanova



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Beaches, Bonding, But he doesn’t let it show ‘cause he’s Neville, Florence’s POV, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Humour, Late at Night, Neville is pining a little bit, Neville’s POV, Opening Up, Truth or Dare, Understanding, trigger warnings in notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanova/pseuds/Atlanova
Summary: "Okay, Florence. What do you want to play?"Truth or dare."Neville frowns, sighs, rubs his temple and mutters something. Florence only laughs and tugs his hand away._________Neville and Florence play a game of truth or dare one night as they sit on the beach shore, but it doesn't turn out to be anything like either of them thought it would be. Which may actually be a blessing instead.
Relationships: Florence Cassell/Neville Parker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	Deep Water

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I was gonna wait until the final episode airs next week to write something, but after last night's ep this sort of just happened.
> 
> I know a lot of you lovely people who write for N/F are deep into their narratives, but it's currently 4am and I'm too tired to go _too_ into that this time, even though I did try to
> 
> [Warnings: rated mature for brief mentions of grief, alcoholism, and orphanages]
> 
> This is my first work in this fandom, and I really hope it's okay :)

" _Oh, I know_!" comes the sudden exclamation, the soft melody of her voice travelling out to sea and beyond. "Let's play a game."

Neville scoffs quietly in laughter and furrows his brow. He looks at her, but then has to make himself look away. He'd have been too captivated, as he often is; even during cases, when he mostly manages to stay professional, the tiniest glints of the sun's rays in her hair can make his focus linger on her. Sometimes, it's difficult to control, when he feels _some_ darn thing pull his eyes. Other times, Neville has found that it is easier to just not look at her for that very reason.

Even if it is more arduous.

"I don't think I need to tell you this, Florence," he begins, "but that requires some sort of a board, and pieces, and a rule book-" he swears that she laughs softly at the latter. He swallows and shakes his head, stifling his own laughter.

Perhaps it's not necessarily humour, but more relief. A surge of gratitude at the way she hadn't laughed mockingly at his insistence on following the rules, as most people in his life had. No, there had been a fondness to her laugh. He's more than sure of it.

"-but we're not even in the shack. We don't have those things with us," he finishes. 

He watches her shake her head, and then lets his eyes drift to the sea before them. The moonbeam from the high up natural satellite shines streaks onto the opal water. Its ripples are gentle and soothing, whilst the hushed breeze pushes the leaves of palm trees. There are a number of insects croaking nearby, and even though Neville's emergency rucksack sits dutifully on the sand, he tries to stop his mind from whirling through the memorized facts about the many Caribbean insect-carried diseases there are, their symptoms, and-

"No, Sir. Although the shack _is_ is just over there, so technically I _could_ go and get some," she teases happily, "but I won't. Because that's not the game I have in mind."

Neville sighs. Of course, it's Florence who breaks his mind from the panicking. Not that he isn't thankful that he is prepared for all eventualities - because, hell, he is - but sometimes it's nice to not have to worry. 

"Okay, Florence," he gives in. His mouth twitches into a small smile, because never in a million years would he have guessed that Florence loved to play games so much. She just didn't seem like that type of person to him, until he really got to know her. "What do you want to play?" 

"Truth or dare."

Neville frowns, sighs, rubs his temple and mutters something. Florence only laughs and tugs his hand away.

"Come on, Sir. It'll be fun."

"Fun?" 

Florence watches him carefully, and Neville suffers beneath the intensity. As if it isn't torturous enough that they're sitting on the shore in front of the shack, in the dark of night, in a blissful silence. As if it isn't enough that her shoulder sometimes graces his and he has to lower his head, remember that she is grieving for Patrice. Lifts his head back up and carry on.

"Yes. Fun. You'll see," she proposes. "l'll start."

Neville knows that she will not back down, if the determination and the excitement on her face is anything to go by. And he can't turn her down - not this time. So he shifts to face her. "Wait a minute, Florence. I don't know the rules."

Florence tilts her head at him and studies him for a few moments. "Have you never played this before, Sir?" 

His heart makes a strange sound in his head as he registers that, once again, she called him by his title. He dislikes the distance it creates but has never said anything, because he knows she must have a reason for it, whatever that is.

Neville also finds that his eyelids blink slowly in time with the surge of affection; once again, she was only curious. Not disparaging at his lack of knowledge of games. But considerate and politely wondering.

"No, Florence. But I do know that this is something people usually play at parties or things like that. And, as you know, my mother never let me go to any."

She seems thoughtful for a moment as she looks out to sea, the waves momentarily reflected in her eyes. "Okay," she says. "Then I'm proud to be the first person you play it with."

Neville sighs and laughs at the same time. He won't ever fully comprehend how lucky he was to find her, and this God forsaken island that seems determined to torment him, but shines down a haven. One he had never known the likes of.

"This is how it works: we take it in turns to ask eachother truth or a dare. Once you pick one, you can't change it. And you have to answer honestly."

Neville strongly dislikes the stress Florence puts on the final rule. As if that's the most important one, and she will be looking for any sign that he is lying. He groans inwardly but nods his head at her as he utters, "Uh ... truth."

Florence smiles and Neville has to avert his eyes.

She looks at him for a long while, trying to decide what to ask him. She knows that he isn't that comfortable embracing some parts of himself, but he is trying and she wholeheartedly appreciates that all the same.

"Okay," she says. "This is probably a stupid question given all your allergies, and it's not exactly a very dramatic question, but ... what was your first ever pet?" 

"Ah ha!" Neville suddenly blurts, any indication that he had been slowly trying to curl back into his shell completely disappeared. "Probably the only animal I'm not allergic to. A tortoise."

For some reason, Florence finds that quite funny. 

"Don't laugh! He made a wonderful little companion, Florence. He was docile and very quiet. Didn't distract me when I was reading or trying to figure out the cases on any detective programme before the detective themselves did."

"Fair enough, Sir," she says, laugh fading into a smile. "What was his name?"

Neville quirks a smile. "Leonardo."

Florence raises an eyebrow. "Da Vinci?"

He looks offended. "Of course!"

"Because ... he looked like a hairy old man from the sixteenth century?"

Now it's Neville's turn to laugh. "Alright. Truth or dare?" 

Florence smiles. "Dare."

The detective pauses at that and the laughs weakly. "Sorry, Florence, but what am I supposed to dare you to do _here?_ " 

Florence fondly rolls her eyes at him and repositions herself on the cool sand. " _Fine_. Truth, then."

"That's better," he says, softly winking at her as they with finish the remnants of a laugh. He sighs as he wonders what to ask her, knowing that he won't enquire as to her first relationship, for fear of what it might stir up in her. Instead he settles to ask her something that he considers might be a little safer.

"What was your childhood like?"

Florence seems to think about this for a while, because she gazes out to sea for what feels like hours, mulling over her life. It had been happy for the most part, except for when she'd had to leave her family. The memories play like cassette tapes in the considerate waves of her mind.

Neville notices this pause. To start with, he waits patiently, assuming that she is just gathering her thoughts. 

But then the time seeps by like molasses - which is a strange feeling, because he has always found that time always seems to go too darn fast when he's with her. He is unnerved by her total lack of response and begins to fidget slightly. 

Until it becomes unbearable and he is forced to say something. "Sorry, Florence. If that was too forward, I-"

"No, Sir," she interrupts, voice a whisper in reflection of the rampant thoughts of her late childhood. "It ... it's fine."

Neville swallows and makes himself look her in the eye. He wants to look away but he can't; there's a vulnerability in her eyes that he hasn't really seen since the night he went to see her at Patrice's bar. Sometimes he sees it in their day-to-day work, the shades of distance and something he can't decipher. But now he can, simply because he is sitting so close to her. He sees nothing but melancholy.

"If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to," he whispers. There are a few muscular tweaks to his face as he sees into the dangerous depths of her eyes. Gets lost again. But only for a short time, as he manages to wade out.

"I want to, Sir," she tells him, and she seems confused. Like she can't understand the strange and palpable reality between them and why it's so emotionally intimate in this moment. 

She clears her throat and snaps her head away, as Neville gives her a slow nod of encouragement.

"My father was a carpenter. He was ... a good man. I think," she whispers, frowning a little. "I remember that he worked a lot. In fact, I barely saw him. But on weekends, we were very close. We'd walk in the vineyards and he would tell me about species of flowers and birds. I remember I laughed a lot, and he looked at me like ... like I was his everything."

Neville knows what that's like, only from a completely different perspective.

"My mother never worked," she says, voice regaining strength. "She preferred to stay at home and look after all my brothers. I used to do carpentry with my father when he wasn't helping her. We were a secure family unit," she says.

The confidence to her voice makes Neville wonder if it's faux. If she is trying to convince herself of something.

"My mother died when she was forty-one. She was targeted in the village and killed," Florence says. She can feel the tears burn her eyes. She hears Neville sigh sadly. "After that, my father stopped working. He wanted to look after us but I think he became depressed. He turned to drinking and that's when my brothers and I were taken away from him."

"You were in care?" Neville asks in a whisper. The concern that fills his eyes is more than enough to tip Florence over the edge, and she wipes a fallen tear from the side of his face.

"Yes, but ... I didn't blame my father for anything, " she tells Neville, her voice harbouring remnants of wisdom that he often hears. "He was grieving, too."

Neville waits patiently, but after a few moments, he figures that she probably isn't going to say anything for a while. He swallows and regards the strength in her eyes, which he admires. But he notes the sadness and he understands it. 

"I'm really sorry, Florence. I didn't mean to dredge it all up for you like that," he says, arms locked around his knees. 

Florence snaps her head up to him at that. Her brows furrow as she recognizes that tone. That goddamn tone in his voice that's darker when he thinks less of himself. 

"Neville, it's fine. Please, don't worry, I think it's good to think about these things from time to time," she says, trying to smile. "It wasn't the _most_ fun game of truth or dare I've ever played," she teases him, watching as he dips his head and laughs. At himself, probably, despite her reassurances. "But I feel closer to you now."

Neville hears the faint sound of Florence gently dipping her toes in the water. But then his head catches up with him as realises that she actually called him by his name. But then he backs up as he considers that maybe it was just a mistake in a moment of vulnerability. That is, until she does it again when she says:

"Neville, are you alright? You've gone quiet," and peers at him jokingly.

The detective clears his throat as a stupid grin appears on his face. "Don't worry, Florence. I'm fine."

The night closes in, the water continues to lap gently, and the two friends still sit in a graceful silence in what is perhaps one of the most beautiful nights they have ever considered.

"I feel closer to you, too," Neville whispers out of the blue, recalling what she had said earlier. But probably on a completely different level, even if she may never know that. That particular thought stabs at his stomach and he forces himself to push it aside. 

Florence looks over at him and simply smiles in response. 

Neville lets himself consider the smile, before he kicks his shoes off. He takes his socks off and pushes his feet out into the water. It is soft and warm and soothing. 

They stay there for what feels like an eternity, until Neville commences that they should probably go to back to their respective homes if they have work tomorrow.

There's a pang of sadness as his hand slips from the small of her back, as they part ways and she heads to the jeep. 

But he knows that he will see her tomorrow, and he takes great comfort in that. 

Even everything that tonight had been quells them both to sleep - Florence, because she became closer to him as a good friend, and to Neville, who became closer to her as something he doesn't think he actually understands anymore.


End file.
